Invariably Intertwined
by ZoosWho
Summary: In the wake of a long period of political and military rivalry, two nations who previously couldn't stand each other now have to have sex to seal a treaty. Chapter1:France/England, Chapter2:Russia/America
1. Dieu et mon Driot

Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme:

In the wake of a long period of political and military rivalry, two nations who previously couldn't stand each other now have to have sex to seal a treaty. Neither of them want it, but it's necessary to assure peace in the future.  
>I want this awkward, snarky, claustrophobic and ultimately a little passionate.<p>

**This story is sort of PWP** (or maybe not sort of); sex, in detail.

I do not own anything Hetaliaish beyond these words.

France/England 

**Invariably Intertwined I : Dieu et Mon Driot**

Paris, the 10th of February, 1763.

Frances' first thought is that he is dressed too well for this: all silk and lace ruffles, blues and yellows, pearl buttons and silver buckles.

It is a mockery, truly. All dressed up and paraded about; a peacock, such as nobles keep to decorate their lives like fine furniture. And it isn't as if he is here because his presence is required for sign or seal. No, that would be something worth dressing for. He is a pawn to be positioned accordingly. Well, to be fair, more like a bishop, or maybe a knight, but still-

Hair tied up, he sits peacefully, face pinched into something fierce.

Because he is sitting across from him.

England.

Done up in velvet, navy blue and whites, black boots, but no cravat and some ridiculous hat. At least his own has feathers. But their hats are on their knees now anyways, so it doesn't truly matter.

Broad, unyielding French being spoken beside them, unconcerned with their presence, brings his mind back to center. _Oh yes, it __is__ about time, __isn't__ it?_ Time for these birds to display their feathers.

The papers were already signed before the other had even arrived. Their Britannick, Most Christian and Catholick Majesties having already affixed their seals. Now, under the watch of their Ministers Plenipotentiary, Ambassadors Extraordinary, the true negotiations were to forcibly take place.

France thinks of horse breeding and goes cold. He also realizes that the conversation in the room has quieted considerably and looks up to see England, head held high, pointedly staring in the opposite direction of the other occupants. Turning he find seven sets of eyes regarding them.

Well, no time like the present and, regardless of situation, one must always act the gentleman.

A soft clearing of his throat, "Ahem-"

England's eyes jerk up to his. They hold apprehension, that much is certain, he thinks disgust maybe, but mostly pride. _Ah, because what would you be without it my friend_, he thinks pleasantly. At least some things never change.

One of the Ministers approaches.

"This way gentlemen, if you please."

Relatively good English, if not a bit stiff. He doesn't smile, but rather gives a curt nod in the direction he wishes them to follow. The others watch the pair as they fall in line, trailing the man in soft cream colored dress. Eyes entranced, watching the peacocks show their colors.

Not a word has been spoken, certainly not between the two, and nothing from the Ministers, except where to sit and when to follow. Silence, worn like a shroud, makes the whole _event_ feel akin to a funeral. However, oddly, it lends a sense of stubborn dignity to those who have no say in the matter.

The room is one of the kings own, saved for the most favored of his Majesty. _Why _is the only thought that comes to France's mind. So much pomp and circumstance is not serving to ease the awkwardness of the situation. Not at all.

The minister pauses at the door, "I will return in an hour."

Spoken in soft French, to which England replies with a not too quiet snort of _frog_. After the door shuts, the tumble of a lock follows.

"Nice to see that your people do not trust us."

"I am certain it is for our own privacy."

England scoffs predictably.

"At least someone thought to start a fire."

He stalks over to the flames and paces, oddly reaching out to straighten objects on the mantle until he comes across what looks to be a jar of melted wax, warming in front the fire. Hesitating, he dips in two fingers, rubbing them together.

"Animal fat? Decided to spring for something fancy?"

"It's an excellent lubricant. Oil tends to dry out too quickly. Soaks into the skin."

This isn't the first time at least, for either of them. Though the last time they shared a bed it was the mid-eleventh century and a remarkably similar situation to this one.

France thinks about navy velvet and blue and yellow silks. They don't complement each other.

Sighing he follows England to the fire. He's about a foot a way when England turns abruptly and startles.

"Good god! Why are you so close?"

"Why else?"

England balks, stuttering slightly, an old nervous habit.

"Well, don't just sneak up on a person! Ugh, you French and your _amour."_

"_Oui_, what about it?"

"Simply put-" France wonders if anything England ever said was put simply "no wait, we don't have time for this."

"_Quoi?_ A Briton not have time to lecture someone? Why ever not?"

"Because, fool, we have a little under an hour, now to do... this." England jerks his hand between them.

"Time is not a problem, _Anglet__e__rre_. When all is said and done we only need maybe... ten minutes." He shrugs a little; no need to romanticize anything.

"Ten minutes."

"Maybe less. Five is probably enough, if you don't mind it a little rough."

Fingering the thread of the embroidery on the back of a chair, he meets England's gaze with a smirk. England rises to the challenge beautifully, lifting his chin,

"Then what are we waiting for? Lets get this done with."

and promptly begins to undo the thick metal buttons on his coat.

_Perfect._

And because he doesn't believe in wasting an opportunity, France watches, acknowledging England's fine frame, a mix of nobility and wilderness.

England pauses mid button to give France a look: _well_?

He rolls his eyes and pulls at his cravat.

"Pardon me for trying to... _get into the mood_. Always in a rush, _mon petit diable de mer_?"

"First," England begins, jerking his waistcoat off "no more French if you expect me to be able to go through with this. Second, it was _you_ that said five minutes. So prove to me,"

now England's shirt follows his jacket, as France fingers the buttons at his own throat,

"that your people are capable of following through with at least _one_ of your boasts. Especially as it concerns the one thing to which you claim ultimate superiority."

To this England gives a particularly challenging glare, meeting France's eyes with all the fire that fuels the British Empire. It's something that he won't admit for another two hundred years, but he likes this England; hard and biting, a fighter. Something he admires from when they both lived under the rule of Rome.

Still, their both stripped to breeches and stockings and neither one making a move to get nearer to the other. So France decides to bridge the gap, despite the fact that it's him who's making the most concessions.

"If I'm the one with the time restraint, then it's you on your back."

He motions to the rug at the foot of the hearth.

"Oh good, well, at least I get the easier part."

"Oh? I do believe that is all in how you look at it."

The innuendo, at least, is not lost on England, who sniffs haughtily and, like the gentleman he is, manages to look dignified half naked and lowering himself to lie spread eagle on the floor.

"Alright git, get to it."

"Ah, the romance of the British never ceases to amaze me."

With some effort France unbuttons the double button set on England's brits and yanks them unceremoniously to his knees. England glares up at him, but if he's embarrassed he doesn't show it.

"I thought we'd already decided this. Thats _your_ claim to fame. We're a good fuck, you're a good lay."

"Poetic as always. Besides, they seem to me to be one and the same."

Dipping his fingers into the lubricant, France scoots closer to England putting one hand between his legs, coaxing him to spread himself open.

"Hah! Only to an uncultured, inherently lazy, utterly cowardly-"

France abruptly pushes his index finger fully into England.

"Oh sweet fornicating fairies! A little warning, if you please?"

"Oh, I am sorry, _cher_. Did I hurt you? Or is it because I pushed that stick further up your ass?"

"You French twit. Even out your strokes, would you? Lord, I thought you knew what you were doing."

"I have a time limit, no? We agreed it would be rough."

"Rough doesn't mean shitty. I'll never get it up at this rate."

"Trust me, you will not be the one to worry about."

France sighs, trying not to focus on his own flaccid cock. Normally he would get excited at the mere sight of someone getting naked. But with England-

"How do you manage to take the fun out of even this, England?"

"What? I'll not be blamed for your impotence you wine swilling son of a cow!"

The second finger is pushed in just as roughly as the first. This time England manages to reign in his anger and surprise to a hissed _bloody hell. _France begins to twist and work his fingers, allowing himself to focus. It's a few minutes before he realizes their newest problem.

It is silent.

Absolutely silent, save for the crack of fire. Even their breathing has stilled to barely perceptible. He is knuckle deep in England and all France can think about is how his feet are cold.

And England-

England is completely still beneath him, eyes closed, face screwed up in concentration.

_Well, _France thinks, _at least sex doesn't get anymore __boring__ than this._

_No! __Focus now! You are the goddamned country of love! __If you cannot do this then what hope is there for the rest of the world?_

France has a sudden vision of a world wherein all people behave as uptight as England. It steals his resolve. Shifting his weight, France moves up and over the others body. Now they are nearly face to face, England's breath tracing his lips.

France murmurs into the quiet "Say something sexy."

And, although he has been naked with France's fingers up his ass, it's now that England blushes bright red.

"Like what?"

"_Je ne seis pas_. Something, anything. Tell me what you want to do to me."

"I want to have you drawn and quartered. And no French."

"That is not sexy."

"Neither is French."

France looks directly into England's eyes, pleading: _work with me. _

And then he has an idea.

"So you do not think French is sexy, _musaraigne peu__?_" he growls "Then why when I speak it does your whole body shiver? Why do I think you want me to fuck you into this floor?"

He holds England's eyes and speaks low and quiet and close.

"_Ne vous voulez que je vas te faire encule__?_"

England's whole body vibrates. He gives one short nod.

Another finger, slow and teasing this time and England groans, spreading his knees. _Well, thats a start_, he thinks, because finally he feels the tingle of arousal thats almost drowned out by the feeling of relief.

For that France is willing to give a little too. Smoother, firmer strokes until-

"Oh-nng!"

"Ah, _Oui_. There?"

He grins, because its some sort of personal victory that England is now breathing heavy enough to push a steady pulse of noise into the room. Something to work with. Now if only he can get himself there.

France decides to take liberties, seeing as how he's on the clock. Fingers working a steady pace, he leans in, England watching him, wary, and touches their foreheads, gently sliding the skin together. The tactile sensation does wonders, stirring up the small flame in France's belly. Seems to affect England too, because he turns his face up, letting their noses brush, and sighs. He traces his nose along France's jaw, grating against stubble and France leans his cheek against sandy hair and breaths.

He is at once assaulted with the memory of shorelines and sea air.

It is potent.

He adjusts himself, moving his weight back onto his knees, dragging his fingers up England's bare arm, taught from pulling lines and rigging, lingering over baby smooth scars. It is oddly slow and sensual for how far they've come. France presses his face into the messy hair he once tried so hard to tame and allows himself to inhale again, eyes closed, catching too fleeting memories of a man shouting orders aboard his ship, of a boy running wild along green coasts.

There is something fragile here and it prompts France to lean down give light kisses from England's shoulder into the hairs at his nape.

"Mmm." England sighs and opens to him, tilting his jaw up, asking.

France gives, kissing his lips, sliding his fingers out from inside him to kneed firmly at the skin behind his balls, stroking him lazily with the other hand. England arch's up at that, seeking contact with a soft _oh_.

He must say something though because, without opening his eyes, England asks "What now, frog?"

It's meant to be a sneer, but his heavy breathing is ruining the effect.

"Its nothing. I was just thinking how I could get used to you like this."

He tightens his grip on England's cock, setting a steady rhythm.

"_A__h__-_ don't get your hopes up."

With a pained look, England's head falls lightly to his chest, hips rocking gently against France's fingers. Gathered at his hair line, sweat glistens in firelight like so many jewels. Needy fingers press and grip into thick fur beneath them.

France finally finds himself aroused. It's as sudden as it is demanding.

He wonders if England has always looked this fuckable; pants around his knees, spread open wide considering the restraint, panting, straining, moaning _his name_ – and _oh god_, if that doesn't go straight to his cock. Breathing shallow and heavy, he presses himself against England's leg and grinds like an animal in heat.

England produces high pitched and stunted sounds, needy little things that grip France by the balls and squeeze. His excitement is pumping them too hard, too fast, if England's _pleasepleaseplease_ are anything to go by. It takes a great effort to put a stop to their actions, but they have a duty to fulfill.

"_Merde_. We need to-"

"-fuck. Yes, I am aware."

"As eloquent as ever."

"Shut it, you."

With sure easy movements England removes all but his stockings and is quick onto his knees, kissing France, light and immediate. It surprises France, but in the best of ways. England rarely offers such intimacy and it serves to make France hyper aware of the situation; fingers on skin, the softness of another's mouth. He turns his head and opens himself.

Too quickly they loose focus again, erections pressing, so pleasantly slick, against one another. This time it is England who pulls away and stands. France would really like to care about his dignity, his pride, in a moment like this-

but he doesn't and really he can't; after all, he is not England.

He grips England's hips, pulling him close and, slicking his lips, swallows England until his nose meets curly blond hairs.

"Oh _holy __Christ. _France!"

The shock in his voice sends fingers of pleasure tingling down his spine. England bends over, both hands in his France's hair, kneading lightly_. _

"There. F_f__fuck_, please, like that."

Like an erotic dance, England rocks his hips gently. France cups his ass cheeks, squeezing, sliding fingers back into tight warmth-

"Stop. _Stop!_ I'm too close."

Perhaps his reluctance to stop shows in his face, because England gives him a look that has _idiot_ written in it and pulls himself out. France sucks harder with each inch that's removed; it's spiteful, but France likes the look of pained lust on England.

Moving to the fire place, England puts both hands on the mantle, resting his weight, legs open, inviting. He smirks at France over his shoulder -a knowing smile, a conquerors smile.

There's an ache throughout his lower body, a demand that makes France press himself flush against England's back. One arm wrapped tight across a narrow chest, he pumps his dick through the slicked crack of England's ass; France humps him, whispering moans into damp hair.

England arc's his lower back, pushing up onto his toes, spreading himself, so all it takes is a few more rocking thrusts to start France pushing into him.

And, _oh god_, England is tight. So tight still, after all that work.

He briefly considers commenting on him being a tight-ass, but chooses rather to focus on the sight of England's back, the look of skin moving over muscle as he flexes his shoulders.

_If __I__ were a god of sex_, France muses, _then __you,__ England, __you__ would be __my__ bane: the one thing to t__ying__me__ to earth, bury__ing__me__ in mortality_.

It's a very dramatic thought and France likes it.

He laughs "You make me poetic."

"You make me impatient. How long are we going to be standing here?"

France just smiles, enjoying the gentle _th__wa__p_ of skin against skin, the feel of hips against soft buttocks. He sets a slow, all too pleasant grind, hardly pulling out enough to disconnect their skin.

It's too much.

France stills and presses his face into England's shoulder moaning.

"God, you are so _tight_."

"It's too hot in front of the fire."

It's not the response he's expecting, but he won't deny it's the truth.

"Kneel on the couch."

England looks incredulous at the order, but moves nevertheless, grumbling under his breath about _frogs_. He grips the wood along the spine of the couch, fingering the _fluer de lis_ carved there, and pulls his knees onto the cushions.

France can't help it really, not with England's ass presented so perfectly. The slap resounds through the room.

"YOU SLIMYaa_hhnng_!"

France loves how easy it is to push back in, fingers fitting nicely over hip bones and one foot propped up near England's knees.

"Your _ass_, beyond those writhing pubic hair monstrosities you call eyebrows, is your single most defining feature."

He slaps it again for good measure.

"It deserves appropriate attention."

"One more comment... about my eyebrows and I will flip you over and fuck you raw."

France chuckles lowly against England's skin.

"Ah, but I may talk about your ass, yes?"

He squeezes a cheek to accent his point. and mouths the arc of a shoulder blade, tasting the salt of sweat.

"Oh god you pretentious, overstuffed piece of French ass-_ff_fuuck harder!"

Yes, this position is much preferred.

France's mind now offers another vision of the world. One in which England is often submissive like this: head hung between his arms, knees slipping sideways, opening, offering. He cannot help but to take, to slam into England, feeding off of the slapping sound their movement makes, the groans that punctuate each thrust.

"_Mon __d__ieu, Anglet__e__rre_. How is it you make me want to fuck you like this?_Si j'avais su_... _dieu_, if I had known it could be like this..."

France grips the back of the couch and pusheshard, till he's on the balls of feet.

"Oh god, _god_ France! There, _please_, there!"

England's knees have long since slid to nearly parallel with the floor. Its strikes France, only as he is literally fucking England into the couch, that his friend is quite flexible.

"Oh what I could do with you, pet."

England moans at France's voice "H-harder, you-you..." but then as France complies, "..._more_, France. Say more..."

"Ah, but you s-said no more French. _Mais vous êtes un sale petit bâtard ne sont pas vous__?_ A-all your ...poise and _prétexte_... when you just like to, hah, take it like the whore you are? _D__oux Jésus_!"

When their slow decent finally brings them to the floor, England is rocking on top of his erection with a vengeance, using his forearms as leverage against the couch to pull himself up, before falling back into France's lap. He is rolling his hips and moaning, fisting himself furiously. It's all France can do to brace himself and meet each thrust. He manages to lean forward and cover England's hand with his own.

"You are beautiful like this."

England's response is a sharp cry, as his whole body shudders his orgasm. He drinks in air, mangling the noise into a sob, a sound of desperation.

Slowly England's motions fade to nothing, leaving only his harsh breathing and France's anticipation.

"My feet are going numb."

England looks back at him, taking in his position, knees bent sharply beneath him.

"Huh? Oh, sorry."

He moves up off of France, ignoring the pool of semen in front of them, and drops lazily onto the rug before the fire. He looks like a person who is about to sleep, peaceful and sated. And when France kneels down to rest in the cradle of England's thighs, he takes note of the warmth of affection he is feeling towards him.

"Hurry up or I might need another round."

France cannot help but laugh. "Enjoying yourself too much I see."

England scrunches up his nose and sticks out his tongue. The petulance.

"I liked you better when you were younger-"

"Clinging to your skirts?"

France doesn't correct him, hoping to kill the mood, to calm the pool of warmth growing in his gut. But when he pushes back into England, it only intensifies. Something is screaming at him and it's not just lust. But, _oh god_, he wishes it was. England unties the ribbon in his hair and stares, eyes wandering over France's face, lazy fingers trailing through his hair.

It's all becoming too much for France: the intimacy, the tight warmth, those eyes. His hands fall to either side of England's head, touching, caressing, reciprocating. He keeps his thrusts languid and thorough, appreciating how it has become slippery and oh so easy to move between them. How, now that England is finished, he just lies there and takes it.

France comes gripping the rug and England's shoulder, groaning, jerking his hips in the remains of his orgasm.

Giving himself a moment after he stills, he pulls out and rolls onto his back. Shoulder to shoulder they lie, taking in ornate fixtures and fire heat.

"France."

"Mm?"

"That was _not_ five minutes." France smiles, slow and pleased.

"No. It was a lifetime."

"You are ridiculous, you know that?"

There is a stretch of silence where France contemplates sleeping.

"When do you leave for Spain?"

"Within the hour, I should think... Will you go to Portugal?"

He turns his head lazily to England, studying his profile, eying the slight tension between his brows.

"He will arrive here tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Hm."

There is too much, France thinks. Too much distance between them and not just what can be measured, quantified. All the times they argued, fought, negotiated, schemed -all the times they almost tore each other apart -days spent laughing in Briton's green fields, weaving flower garlands -all the times that might have ended like this night is meant to, but never did.

"You will be good to him, right?"

"I think Spain can take care of himself."

France stares at the ceiling in silence.

He notices the shake in his own breathing. "I miss him already you know?"

"He's with his brother. They... they are always together now. That is... I know they met up before, but I-I keep them together now. They will look out for each other."

With this England is up and moving, gathering himself together. France watches, as he is known to do, and makes no move except to put his arms under his head.

"In less than a fortnight," England starts, already at the door "the thirty-first to be precise, I leave for the new world again. London Port, The Henrietta. I can hold them until noon if need be."

France closes his eyes and gives a brief nod. He will be there.

* * *

><p>To this day the coat of arms of the United Kingdom reads '<em>Dieu et mon Droit<em>' (God and my right) –

By virtue of this being my first ever fanfiction, this is also my first Hetalia story and my first smut! Huzzah ^.^ I know I posted the other one first, but in actuality this one was written before, just not edited.

Translations:

_mon petit diable de mer __- _my little sea devil

_Je ne seis pas __- _I don't know

_musaraigne peu __- _little shrew

_Ne vous voulez que je vas te faire encule __- _Do you want me to fuck you

_Si j'avais su __- _If I had known

_Mais vous êtes un sale petit bâtard ne sont pas vous __- _But you are a filthy little mongrel aren't you

_prétexte __- _pretense

_D__oux Jésus __- _Sweet Jesus


	2. Peace that is no peace

**Invariably Intertwined II: Peace that is no peace.**

Moscow, the 1st of July, 1991

He had been in this room for nearly twenty minutes and it was starting to grate on his nerves.

It wasn't helping that for the last five he has had to listen to what was quite clearly the voice of America arguing with, presumably, his boss outside the door. The voices reached a climax before halting abruptly with a final '_this conversation is over'_, spoken quiet with undeniable authority. It reminded Russia of a parent speaking to a child and somehow that thought managed to make the situation feel all the more awkward. Because, although America acted much like a child, he was certain this situation was not one parents often forced their children into. _Ah, but nations_, _well, we are another story, are we not_? It had been a while, but this was not Russia's first _'_treaty_'_ by any means, however it was his first with America.

America who was obviously not pleased with the situation. Russia smiled quietly to himself. _This should be interesting._

When America finally deigned to enter, he was wearing a suit and a look of stubborn indignation reserved exclusively for a child being forced to share a favorite toy. He came in just far enough for the door to swing shut, not by his own hand, and when the lock clicked he stared at it longingly. Then, with a deep sigh, he turned his focus on Russia, who sat on the lone bed, vodka bottle in hand.

He glared hard at Russia, evidently blaming him for every ill that had ever befallen him. So Russia glared back. It was their way, after all. A war without war.

Russia kept his silence, though, as he had no reason to make this easy. After all, there was nothing but ugly lies and vicious words between the two of them now. Leaning back on one arm, Russia smiled into his bottle. It was twisted and if it were anyone else in the room with him, they would claw at the door for freedom. But this was not anyone. _You won't run, will you America?_ _You will always face me. _

"Whenever I see you smile like that it reassures me that at least I'm not alone in my insanity."

"You find such things reassuring do you?"

America shrugged, dropping his gaze, already starting to fidget, twining his fingers and glaring at objects around the room as if their mere presence was offensive.

Russia watched him. America was a constant force, restless in his movements, pacing, touching, always, _always_ moving, like a jungle cat in a cage. Others sought to keep him like that, caged, to make him stand still and perhaps they were correct. America wild and untamed was a danger, an unlearned child being released upon the world. However, since England refused to compromise to a leash instead of a cage, there was no restraining the boy. Russia would not ask him to keep still though, nor would he force him. That endless driving force, that need to continue, to consume, that was something Russia understood whole heartedly. He too was once a child in chains. But those memories are best kept at a distance. Here and now, he had a job to do, literally.

"If I understand correctly, this will be the first time you have done this?"

"Uh-huh. And I gotta say, it's pretty messed up."

"Someone has explained the particulars to you?"

"My boss, uh, told me what England's boss told him."

"Your boss... not England, or another like us?"

"No. Why? Is there something I should know?"

"Not as long as you understand the details of this arrangement. What must occur between us."

"I think I get it. The basics anyway."

"The basics, yes. I wish to know how much detail he gave you on these basics. That you are aware of what must-"

"Damnit Russia, yes! He told me. We have to have- we have to... do it." This was accompanied by random hand gesticulations.

"Sex."

"Yes, sex. _Thank you_." America took a long slow breath.

"It can be nothing less." Russia continued.

"Yes, yes! I know. Believe me. I am all too painfully aware." America, ran one hand through his hair and held the other out, expectantly. Russia silently passed over the vodka. He watched America drink- the pulse of his throat, turn of his neck- a familiar itch to touch welling up, often associated with violence. Not now though.

"Do you wish for me to start this, since I have more experience with the situation?" Russia asked.

America dropped the bottle from his lips. "Nuh-uh. I can do this. Lets just, you know, do it as fast as possible, yeah?"

"That does not sound very pleasant."

"What about this is pleasant?" He scoffed. "I don't think that these treaty terms were negotiated with my interests in mind."

"I believe they were, insofar as these things can be negotiated. We both have a wish to end this."

"Alright, so let's end this."

America set the bottle aside and began to undress, business like, folding and piling his clothes in a corner. It felt to Russia like watching someone prepare to go to battle. And somehow that seemed entirely appropriate.

"And I had to get dressed up for this."

Though he was managing to glare impressively, there was a furious blush racing across America's face. He unbuttoned his dress collar and pulled on his tie, loosening it enough to pull up over his head. It made Russia wonder, idly, if he actually knew how to tie his own tie or if he was keeping it knotted because he couldn't replicate it once it came undone. America pulled off his shirt a little hesitantly.

"Well?" he asked, eyebrows up.

"Yes?"

"Planning on joining me anytime soon?"

"We are going to simply get undressed, get into bed and have sex. This is what you are thinking?"

"Yup that's pretty much the gist of it."

"How is it you think we will be having sex?"

"I don't know, Russia. We have sex. Geez, you're the one who's done this before. But I do think we have to be somewhat undressed."

"And how will we have sex if neither of us is erect? Though I see we have been kindly supplied with lubricant, should the event occur." Russia picked up the cheap looking bottle of scented lube, _ugh_. Eying it with disdain before replacing it on the night stand.

"Yeah I noticed. Does that come standard with the room, you think?" Despite himself, Russia felt a more natural smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Look, let's just try the standard route." Now America was in only his briefs and socks, awkwardly standing like he hadn't quite decided on whether to take charge or make a run for it.

"And that would be...?"

"Well you getting undressed for starters."

Rolling his eyes, Russia began to pull off his own clothes. "And then?"

"And then we, well, uh, you know, touch ourselves."

Russia couldn't stop the smile this time and added a little derisive snort. "Masturbation?" America's answering blush was glorious.

"Yes. That." He said, pulling off the last of his clothing with only a minimal amount of hesitation.  
>Russia slowed his undressing, letting his eyes fall slowly over America's naked form; half man, half child. He had always thought this, but found it even more evident now, seeing the places were youth still made him soft. America's hands twitched at his sides, as if wanting to protect himself from Russia's scrutiny.<p>

He was staunchly making eye contact with the wall, seemingly waiting for some cue to get started. But then, suddenly enough, he reached down between his legs and began roughly jerking himself. It took Russia a little by surprise and America's quickness was disconcerting.

"Come on." He nodded toward Russia, expectantly. "Lets get on with it."

_Demanding, uncultured little pissant_- however the sight of America, young, fit and desperate in his movements, was not an unpleasant one. No, far from it in fact. Russia palmed himself lightly, watching what was arguably the most arousing sight he had ever seen involving this nation. And yet, America didn't seem to be getting very far with his actions. Even after a few minutes, he was barely half hard and his face was screwed up in concentration. Russia could not help the snort of laughter, because America was behaving very much like the teen he appeared to be.

"Don't laugh." America threw up his hands. "How are we supposed to do this if you laugh?"

"I apologize, but your plan does not seem to be working."

"Because I can feel you staring at me, like you have for the past forty-odd years! You're freakin' me out!"

"Ah. And here I was under the impression that you enjoyed the attention. Craved it like some filthy, half-starved, inbred mutt." America answered his smile with an unimpressed, dead stare, which only made Russia's smile grow.

"Nice description."

"Thank you."

"How long have you been waiting to fit that one in?"

"Actually I have found it an apt description for some time now. It is simply the first time it has come up between us."

"Oh good."

America stared down at his now completely limp cock.

"Oh god..." America rubbed his hands over his face "we're gonna be in this room ALL DAY!" The last part was given a little whining for emphasis. "How is this sane? How did such ridiculous terms ever come into existence? It's ludicrous! Take two enemies-" here America paused and fixed Russia with a look of curiosity and disgust "or more? Oh my god, what do you people do with treaties involving more than two countries? Is this what you guys do in your spare time? Have orgies? _Eew_! Oh this is why I avoid the Old World. Gross perverts, every one of you. I'm never visiting again!"

As it seemed that America had no intention to stop talking Russia felt it was his duty to move them along.

"America."

"-and then next thing you know, they'll want me to have sex to improve the economy or something!"

"America."

"Sexsexsex! It's all you old-"

"_America!_"

"What?"

Russia gave what he hoped was a very pointed gaze.

"It must be difficult for one your age to understand, but it has always been this way. Since before I can remember. Before Rome, when Ancient Egypt was called Kemet and China was still a child following the Yangtze, hearing only whispers of his first name. Something even the Mother of you and your brothers' Native people knew, separate as our continents are. It is the way of our kind. I am sorry you were not taught this as a child, but it is the way things are. I am no more happy about this then you are and I can change it no more than you can." America watched him, looked at him, really _looked_ at Russia, like he was seeing him for the first time. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he was finally seeing the age of Russia, of their kind.

"Come over here." Russia, finally willing to take the lead, made a sweeping motion at America.

"Why?"

"We have given your plan enough time. It is not working. Now we will try my idea." His smile was met with furrowed brows and suspicion. "You look much like England when you make such a face."

"I really don't want to think about you and England doing this. Especially not right now."

America moved toward him like one would approach a wild animal, cautious and slow, until he was standing in front of Russia. He moved his hands up, ever slowly, to Russia's shoulders, urging movement with slight pressure. Russia allowed himself to be lowered back onto the bed with America settling over him, his knees outside his hips.

They were tense, but also weary. This constant struggle was taking its toll on both of them. America's limber cock was cool against Russia's stomach as they faced each other. Tentatively, Russia, placed his hands on America's hips, wary of the intimacy of the action and of the others unwillingness to feel pinned down. But America was staring down at him, head cocked questioningly.

"We don't have to kiss right? Should... should we kiss?"

Russia looked hard at his counterpart: America the beautiful. He watched that mouth as it moved in tireless rambling, trying to imagine the intimacy of a kiss with the creature that had plagued his life for so long. It didn't seem like something they should try.

He could do it. As far as negotiations went, this was easy. America was strong and demanding, but young, _oh so very young_, and far too easy to manipulate. He could kiss the boy, have sex with him, these things, he had done before and would, most likely, have to do again.

But still.

Between them there was so much hate. Different from what had come before between other nations. Others were given the chance to fight, to make the other bleed, to act on their emotions. But this _young_ thing, this creature of their own making, child of empires, raised to know only glory and strength, between them, there was no relief. No fury of fists, only vile words building up so much pressure, a dam too close to breaking, and with it, taking the whole of mankind; words spilling so much unkempt hate, such a shame for two who hardly knew one another, barely a kinship, when such a vice took root.

No, he cannot imagine coming so close to the mouth that had spit such degradation in his direction.

"I do not see a need for it, no."

America went impossibly still at this and didn't meet Russia's eyes. He stared at the wall, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"Do you hate me?" he asked in a flat voice.

"I thought we hated each other?"

America sighed, his gaze sill stuck on the wall, "I am tired, Russia. I don't want to do this anymore."

Russia felt those words like a weight falling off of him. He pulled America down into his arms and just held him.

They lay there quietly for a moment, skin to skin, indomitable nations of men, sharing respite and perhaps their first moment of peace. Russia noticed, idly, that America's thumbs were grazing softly against his chest. A small something seemed to shift between them then, nearly imperceptible except for when America's eyes caught his there existed something more there, open where before they had been guarded, offering an intimacy that far surpassed their nudity. He was so quick to trust, this little one. It was a flaw; America wanted to trust, maybe he needed to. Russia thought about the question of whether or not they should kiss. Perhaps America had wanted to engage in the act, maybe it had been an offer more than a question?

_Too vulnerable, child. You are too vulnerable in all the wrong ways._

Russia took the time to memorize the feel of America's fingertips across his skin, the shapes being drawn in absent thought. It was nearly peaceful.

Unbidden, he remembered another time when these same fingers touched his own- an eager boy, fresh with ideas, looking for friendship, glass blue eyes wide and unmistakable in their intent. He had wanted the boy then, many did, and had he chosen to, they could have been allies, lovers. But America was just a child, his survival by no means certain. It would have been folly to have involved himself.

Those eyes had smiled through their disappointment, still radiating hope even as Russia's ships had departed.

_What will we be_, he wondered, _at the end of all this?_ What would they be when the mirrors stopped showing only shades of their past?

America's voice broke his reverie.

"He didn't want this you know, my boss. At first, he said it was indecent, an abomination. As if that's what we are... what I am. Almost called the whole thing off." His was voice contemplative. "Almost."

"But here you are."

"Here I am. No doubt Gorbachev made an excellent argument on your behalf."

"Not on mine little America, no. On the worlds, yes."

"As if you ever cared about the world."

"And you do? Ah yes, of course, but far too much, perhaps? Britannia cared about the world too, child. And Rome as well. You are much like him I think. Had you been born in his time, known the early civilizations, there is no doubt in my mind that you would have been of like mind." In a moment of unchecked sympathy, he reached up and pushed the hair back out of the boys face. Youth was truly a curse among their kind. And that thought sparked an interesting question.

"Are you a virgin?"

America looked visibly startled. "Uh, well not technically, no."

Oh. Russia felt an emotion remarkably like disappointment.

"But... for what we have to do, I guess, yeah, I am."

"You mean, you have never been with a man?"

"Hey, I've done stuff, just not _everything_." But America's furious blush was enough of an answer.

Guilt was not an emotion that Russia was accustomed to feeling, however the very strong, possessive emotion that accompanied it now, was something with which he was quite familiar. Thoughts of _mine, mine, could be all mine_ mingled dangerously with a nearly overwhelming wash of want. The little niggling voice in his head, that was valiantly trying to remind him of how wrong it was to be excited by this situation, was easily drowned out by the one shouting happily about his proprietary advantage. He would be first. And, oh, it was wrong to be so pleased, but the same emotions that had welled up so long ago, when the boy had first offered, were now colliding dangerously with each other in their attempts to be first in his mind. He wanted the boy, same as he did then, no question about that. And all thoughts regarding their bitter little feud, their cold war, were rapidly dissipating in the wake of new possibilities.

He wanted and it _ached_. For the first time in more years than he cared to remember, Russia allowed himself to fully feel the pain of his desires. He wanted America, probably more than he should. It would be prudent, Russia thought, trying keep a measure of himself, perhaps if they did not kiss. If he at least tried to keep some distance between this physical act they would perform and his emotions. Too often he had allowed himself to be wholly guided by emotion and it had never ended well.

"... fingered myself so I know how that works but you know it's been a while since I've done even that and I've just been busy god this is so awkward how are we even supposed to start?"

Russia stared hard at America, trying to sort out the jumble of supposed words that had just fallen from his mouth.

"I think it will be easiest if you lay on your stomach."

"Not even gonna offer a girl a drink first, huh?" America laughed, rolling off of Russia onto the bed beside him. Flat on his belly, America was a lovely sight. All sinewy muscle and long legs. Russia especially admired the light dimples above his ass.

"I could get the vodka, if you like." Russia said, with his own smile, to which America laughed and shook his head.

"Let's you and me just get started, yeah?"

"_Da_-yes." Russia faltered, because, with his words America had spread his legs invitingly.

Grabbing the lube on the side table, Russia coated both his hands liberally. Then he slipped down beside America, awkwardly wrapping one arm around the front of his neck and shoulders. Pulling himself close, he moved his other hand up America's thigh and slowly into the cleft of his ass, pausing at the ring of muscle, putting pressure but not invading.

"Relax." He murmured against America's shoulder.

He felt more than heard America let out the breath he was holding, relaxing ever so slightly. Russia slid his finger in smoothly.

America grimaced, "I forgot how uncomfortable that feeling is at first."

"Hm." Russia hummed noncommittally in reply, because America was hot and tight and he was already half hard and grinding himself against America's thigh. Russia pushed deeper, searching for that spot.

"_Hng._" America groaned pushing back against Russia's finger. _Perfect_, he thought, pressing against it again just to hear those sweet little moans.

The second finger was a tighter fit, the muscles trying desperately to reject him, but America moaned as Russia pushed in, grinding his hips down into the mattress. Russia's whole body shuddered in sympathy. It was beautiful, America panting slightly, rocking with his fingers- Russia slipped in the third almost without noticing.

"Okay," he heard distantly, "This, yeah... this is good." but Russia could only hear his own breath now, harsh in his ears. It deafened him, pulling the walls towards him, keeping all focus on this one little act. His whole body, with one glaring exception, seemed to have gone numb. Beyond his own aching erection, he registered nothing but his fingers buried to the knuckle inside America.

America rested his head against Russia's forearm. He could feel the wet heat of every breath the blond took, his lips grazing the sensitive skin in the crook of his elbow, sending random jolts of pleasure through Russia's body. From this position he could feel every tremor in the others body. The boy was still tight, too tight. Russia was aware of his girth and he was quite certain that America would be in pain no matter what. He stretched his fingers wide, but they were still crammed together. Well, it wouldn't get better than this.

It felt absolutely right, as he pulled his fingers free, to mouth kisses along America's shoulder. He settled between the spread of America's thighs, crowding in close and pressing his cock head against the boy's entrance. He was so tight still, Russia pushed a little harder, trying not to force his way in.

"You need to relax, I have no wish to hurt you."

That was not entirely true and they both knew it, but America nodded anyway. His body relaxed just enough to allow minimal access. It was a very tight fit, hot clamp, even with just the tip of his penis inside and Russia wanted, oh he wanted, to just take, force his way into that delicious heat. Even America's screams would be beautiful and it took all of his not inconsiderable strength to hold himself back, to sink slowly, cautiously, and _for god's sake try to remember why you're here!_

Diplomacy, that's right, just keep focused and oh god so _tight_- no! Focus, think, but... but heat, tightness, and _sweet lord have mercy_ America was moving back against him, sinking him fully in one smooth move.

"Ah!" he wasn't sure if one or both of them cried out, as he curled over the body beneath him, struggling to hold himself still. Caught up for a moment in staring at himself buried deep in America. His perfect ass cheeks separated just enough to allow Russia's considerable cock. A terrible wash of need made him shudder. He gripped America's hips, just waiting for a signal.

Finally, _finally_, America rocked ever so slightly in his hands. And it was a beautiful moment, like angels singing, as he rushed forward to meet him, the cup of America's bottom fitting oh so sweetly into curl of Russia's hips. It was a slow start, but the thrum of arousal was already building quickly at the base of his spine. Too quickly. Now that he was here, Russia wanted this to last- not because it was America submitting beneath him, his lithe form taking everything Russia had to offer... labored breathing, so, so beautiful, a nation anyone would want to fuck- oh, he'd lost focus again. This was his enemy and this was business and-

"Oh!" America's cry startled him. "Oh yes, there. Like that."

God he moaned so prettily and Russia obliged him with strong centered thrusts, pulling his hips up, so the boy was on his knees, letting Russia sink even deeper.

"Oh god yes." America moaned, reaching between his legs to stroke himself slowly, rocking back. The immanent rush of orgasm once again pulsed up his spine and Russia immediately slowed his pace.

No, no, not yet. Why waste a good thing? Russia tried desperately to remember anything that France ever taught him about sex. Prolonging pleasure was, after all, the mans specialty and Russia was never more grateful for his tutelage than in this moment.

The change of pace had turned America's low grunts into long, slow whines and needy pleas. He was slow rocking with Russia, alternating between arching and curling his spine, begging with every moan. It was beautiful. No, it was more than that; it was intoxicating. It was a heady rush of power feeling, for this moment at least, like he held all the power of the world at his fingertips. Russia could swear he even heard _please_ falling from those sweet, freckled lips. It was too much. He wanted, _needed_, more. To hold more of this strength; keep it closer, tucked safe near him. It did not seem to matter that it didn't quite make sense. He wanted what he wanted.

Russia leaned over America and pressed his face into the back of his neck, breathing heavy.

"America." he half whispered.

The boy looked over his shoulder, twisting to face him. Russia didn't waste time with words, he was never any good at getting out what he truly meant anyway. He simply leaned forward, resting his forehead against America's, the bridge's of their noses sliding together. America nuzzled against his nose, sliding his from side to side over Russia's larger one. Russia felt a shudder run down America's body and climb up his own.

He'd promised himself they would not kiss, but their lips were less than an inch apart now and Russia could feel them already, taste them. Their lips touched, open and unmoving. Not a kiss, but touching, sharing the air between them. A kiss would change things. It didn't have to, but it would, Russia knew it.

_Why is it so easy to break us?_

And why did it hurt so much to think it?

America slid his dry soft lips over Russia's, side to side, still not quite a kiss. Russia stopped thrusting all together, in favor of just grinding his hips in a circular motion against America's soft, yielding bottom. Russia tried not to think too hard on the fact that he was basking in the _feel_ of America, trying to prolong the inevitable end. Somewhere in his mind ironies were colliding, vying for importance.

"_Mne nravit·sya eto__._" he mumbled, broken and breathless. America shivered underneath him.

"Ah... ah, _god_, Russia. One more move... one more. I'll come. I swear."

"That is fine_, __ptichka__. _It has to end. _Vse eto dolzhno konchitʹsya__._"

"_Mm_yeah." America answered hazily.

Suddenly America was pressing their lips together, tongue lightly flicking Russia's. Soft, so soft and... w_e're not, we are not kissing. We are just... just..._ Russia wound his arms tightly around the warm body in front of him, splaying his fingers possessively over stomach and chest, curling them closer, tongues sliding together. America twisted further, covering his lips with his own, America's fingers slid into his hair, gripping and holding Russia there, while their mouths moved against each others. He trailed a hand down America's side, sliding his flat palm low over his stomach, staunchly avoiding the area where he was needed most. He let his thumb fall gently into the hollow of his navel, before moving up and across a nipple.

America breathed out sharply, "_Nng_."

He stopped to tug lightly at the pink nub. He felt mesmerized by America's body, every shudder pulsing sharply through him.

Using his knees, Russia forced America's legs wider apart and slid his hand into the damp, hot space between America and the sheets, taking a hold of America's wet cock, his grip light but firm. Keeping his hand perfectly still, he gently rocked, pushing America forward and forcing his cock to glide through Russia's fingers.

"Ah_ah!_ Oh my god." Slowly and firmly Russia continued to rock, America's dick pushing into his hand every time. "I can't... please. Oh god Russia please. I-_ah_! I wanna- I just want-"

Russia pulled out until only the head of his penis was inside. Then he pushed back in, long and slow, pulling America's hips back, until the boy was nearly sitting in his lap. He held him there, shoved in deep, letting America feel the full length of him.

America breathed heavy, "Oh _Christ_, Russia." he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

Russia leaning low to growl against his ear, "That's it, take it." America kneaded the bed and thrust back, trying desperately to gain friction inside of Russia's loose fist. Russia tightened his grip on his hips, keeping America still against him. "Take all of me. _Vy mozhete vzyatʹ vse menya__._"

Russia sucked in air through his teeth every muscle tightened in pure, raw want. He pulled out again, pausing to admire America's gorgeous ass, made perfect by the way it was being spread wide to accommodate Russia's girth.

Beautiful.

America shuddered underneath him, head resting on his arms, body tense, waiting. Russia slid in harshly, picking up a stuttery rhythm.

"Oh _fuck,_ I'm so close."

"_Sensornyĭ sebya__._" Russia ground out.

When America made no sign of understanding, he realized his mistake.

"Touch yourself." He repeated. America gave a sob at the command and quickly reached down, covering Russia's hand with his own sweaty one.

"No, that's it." America gasped out, shaking his head "Oh _Christ- _I'm gonna come."

America groaned, thrusting hard into their combined fists. Russia tightened his grip and pumped his hand. He ground down hard into America, watching his face, his eyes shut tight, mouth parted, gritting his teeth as he reached his peak-

"_Krasivyĭ__._" he breathed.

Conscious enough of the word, to use a language that hopefully America didn't know or wouldn't bother translating at this point.

He thrust hard one final time, pushing in as deep as he could go, feeling America's own orgasm pulse through the cock in his hand, as he came inside of him.

They did not move.

Collapsed a little, still connected, onto the bed, yes, but essentially, they remained still.

Russia didn't want to move. He just felt his existence, the simplicity of what the moment actually was, beyond the politics and governments, just two bodies intertwined for a fraction of time. The feel of his skin, the full shape of the figure beneath him, the air between and around them, all of it cooling, pulling back into itself, returning them to what they should be. America hadn't moved, nor made any sign that he wanted to.

"Shit. There's no way all international relations are _that_ good." He mumbled quietly.

Russia couldn't stop his smile if he tried. "I will take that as a complement."

"Fuck yes, you will." he said, all smiles, letting Russia take in the sweet smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the brightness of his blue, blue eyes.

It had a rather sobering effect.

_Not my lover, not even my friend. Don't smile so prettily. _

Russia stood up abruptly, pulling out as carefully, but swiftly, as he could, suddenly needing nothing but space between the two of them. The air was fat full with promise and possibility. Heavy, much too heavy. He turned his back on the bed, America and everything waiting there, pointedly ignoring the small pained sigh breathed out behind him. He crossed quickly to his bottle of vodka waiting on the low standing dresser and drank long and deep. The steady weight was comforting in his hand. _Ah, my old friend_, he thought, and wondered if it would be too odd to put his scarf back on. Distractedly, he heard the rustle of sheets behind him and then America's quiet voice:

"You know, I thought we were friends once."

"No. I do not think that we were."

They never really were, not really. Possible lovers, maybe, but truly it had been such a short time they had together before... well, before everything else, the madness of men and the world.

"And what are we now?"

And it wasn't right that America should ask this, naked, feet in the air, bright eyes revealing a naiveté that never quite got knocked loose.

"You are too young."

Which of course the boy didn't take well, mistaking the meaning entirely.

"I haven't been too young for the last forty-six years?" but his words weren't angry, more exhausted. "I am not too young for war, blame... for hatred, but I am too young for for peace? For friendship?"

For another word, gratefully left unspoken.

"America, there are an infinite number of things that you are too young for. However, you are old enough to do anything you choose, as you have well proven. And yes, you have been too young for those forty-six years and all the ones preceding them. I simply meant that you see the world as young people do. The world is full of questions, so you think that there must be an answer. But it is not always so. And when there is an answer, often, it is not one you will like."

_Like now_, he thought bitterly, adding-

"This changes nothing..."

- _and we are still enemies_, was what he could not bring himself to finish.

Except, that thought didn't seem to resonate quite like it should have. It felt like a projection, something worn outside himself, keeping what was underneath carefully in its place. America dropped his eyes and curled into the blankets and pillows, cuddling them against his body, pulled in tight, like he was trying to recreate the womb he never knew. However, Russia noted, his back was open, baring skin from nape to tail bone, graceful curve of his bottom included. There was something pulling him, like a magnet, towards the arched spine. The vulnerability of the position and America's blatant disregard for his enemies presence were more of an offering than any act performed earlier, certainly more than any declaration of government or leaders.

His whole body tensed as he climbed back onto the mattress. There was a chance that he was wrong, that America would accuse him of subterfuge or worse still, that it was a trap, the attack lying in wait. But he moved forward still.

America was a taught line, tense and waiting, waiting for Russia to make his move. When Russia reached him, he matched the line of America's body flush with his own. America settled against him, with a barely there '_hm'_ of Russia didn't even know what.

"This changes nothing." The boy said and Russia hid his smile in America's hair.

"No, it does not."

"Then stay for a while."

There was a coldness in Russia's chest that he couldn't fathom. A pain he had been aware of, but now... now it had mutated, grown into a new type of _want_ that was terrifyingly desperate. In that moment he was very aware that he and America shared in their neediness, so alike in loneliness. An irony to their hate.

And suddenly that want- that want to hurt he felt too often for the boy- just didn't translate right.

He had never held back the urge, too well ingrained from childhood, but he could not bring himself to damage this moment, this fragile child. They were encased in porcelain, fine-cracked and brittle with age, a moment from destruction. Russia would keep still, keep his emotions close and let the breath that rattled their lungs be their only movement. Build a trust from dust and ashes. Wield peace from war.

Because America was still a child in chains. Only now, they weren't the kind that could be broken with wars.

So Russia would hold him and show the mercy he was unaccustomed to receiving.

And maybe they could heal each other.

**History**  
>Peace that is no peace: English author and journalist George Orwell used the term Cold War in his essay "You and the Atomic Bomb", published October 19, 1945, in the British newspaper <em>Tribune<em>. Contemplating a world living in the shadow of the threat of nuclear warfare, he warned of a "peace that is no peace", which he called a permanent "cold war",[1]

Kemet: Black Land, how the ancient Egyptian people referred to their land.

China's first name: Xia Dynasty is reportedly the first, however official records, I believe, begin with Shang. So I think China's first unofficial name would have been Xia. Also, the cradle of the Chinese civilization was the Yangtze River.

**Russian translations **(Hopefully)  
>Mne nravit·sya eto - I like this<p>

ptichka - little bird (birdie)  
>Vse eto dolzhno konchitʹsya - This all has to end (All this must end)<br>Vy mozhete vzyatʹ vse menya - You can take all of me (okay this one was really hard *shame face*)  
>Sensornyĭ sebya - Touch yourself<br>Krasivyĭ - Beautiful (uh, I wanted gorgeous, but it kept translating back into 'great')

I have no Russian beta, so I used as little as possible and I can't know if these are contextually appropriate, either :/ I tried, but there were so many choices just for one little phrase. I hope this doesn't ruin the sex for anyone who speaks the language! I appreciate corrections. 

**Words From Me :D**  
>This one is a little more depressing in my own opinion. While FrUK has the snark of old enemies and lovers, these two have the confusion and pain of new enemies and young love. Don't ask how long I've had this finished, it will only make you unhappy.<p>

I want to do a third story to complete this set. I would love suggestions on who should be the last pair :D

Btw stuttery is now a word.


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